The Good Enough Mothers' Day

There are certain holidays I simply refuse to participate in.

Let’s take Easter for example. Hate the whole dress parade. I will indulge in chocolate marshmallow eggs, however. And, while I celebrate the original reason we have Bunny Day to start with, I can’t (even with my fertile imagination) figure out how we ever got from an empty tomb to a basket of candy delivered by an oversized rodent.

Marti Gras. Not flashing these girls for a string of beads. Nuh uh.

Not big on St. Paddy’s day. Beer isn’t supposed to be green and I can only come up with so many good reasons to have a hangover. Leprechauns aren’t one of them.

Ahhhh and then there’s mothers day.

It is so far from a celebratory event, I won’t even capitalize it.

And since this is an anonymous (well sort of anonymous) blog, and since I’ve never been known for being circumspect, I’m going to say the thing that every single mother out there has thought at one point in time or another:

                I Am Not A Good Mother.

Good Mothers are selfless.

I’m not selfless. I confess. I have eaten the best pieces of fried chicken, the fluffiest rolls, the edges off the cobbler that have the gooey syrupy fruit baked right into the crust so they taste like a cookie-pie… all before they ever made it to the table. I’m a food-thief. I have taken food from my children’s mouths.

Good Mothers always place themselves last.

Not when it comes to standing in line for the potty after a four hour drive. This bladder’s played the trampoline for three fetus-sized humans. It goes first, one way or the other. Preferably in the bathroom.

Good Mothers don’t stand sideways when they look in the mirror and think “This wasn’t here before I had kids, dang it.”

They also don’t look at their kids and think, “Who are you? And why are you not perfect?”

Good Mothers are fluffy and comfortable to sit on and they wear glasses with a chain around the neck. Their houses smell of vanilla and they drive the neighborhood around like a chauffeur in capris and sweater sets and are always on time and never forget their children.

I forgot my children once.

It was on mothers’ day, ironically. The last mothers’ day I ever darkened the doors of a church. After a hectic morning of dressing four small spider monkeys, I threw on my own clothes and loaded the van with the potluck and diaper bags and purses and Bibles and enjoyed the long quiet drive to church with my well behaved brood. Except when I got to church…well, two of the four were missing.

Which would explain the peaceful journey.

You know, that one is worth repeating.

Good Mothers don’t forget their children.

I will never forget my son at five, asking me to dance on the freshly cut lawn.

Or my daughter, at 17, going to prom with a strawberry colored armpit because I couldn’t manage to work the depilatory process.

Or my other son, riding up behind me in the canyon, pausing his horse beside mine, saying, “Thanks for letting us grow up to be men, Mom.”

Or the surgeon, who, while removing the bullet from one sons’ rear end, looked at me and said, “So, you homeschool and you have 3 kids. Which means, 33.3% of your students just shot 33.3% of your students?”

That stuff doesn’t happen to Good Mothers.


But, you know, I wasn't a Bad Mother, either. I didn't sell my children's toys to buy drugs. For that matter, I didn't sell my children, either. 

I guess it's this: My kids deserved the crème de la crème. They deserved Martha Stewart and Donna Reed and Mary the Mother of Jesus all rolled into one. They deserved the best. Because they are amazing and smart and beautiful and compassionate, caring humanoids that somehow survived being raised by Lucille Ball and Carole Burnett and all Three Stooges.

So there: That’s why I hate mothers day.

Because I am not the mother I wanted to be. I’m not the Good Mother. But, apparently, I am the Good Enough Mother.

Can we have a Good Enough Mothers’ Day? I could rock that one. I might even circle it on the calendar.

Heck, I might even wear beads.


So this one's for all you other Good Enough Mothers out there....


I love ya!

Confused Shoes

I do believe I am my roommate’s worst nightmare.

She winds cords and uses bread ties to secure them.

I don’t.

She organizes the refrigerator and cabinets, always placing the partially consumed articles on top or in front to ensure they are consumed first, with the newer items in the rear.

I eat out of the carton.

She parks her vehicle always facing out of the drive, with the drivers’ side closest to the front door.

I park half in and half out of the yard.

She, being Native, believes in the importance of placing inanimate objects appropriately. Shoes, for example, are to be next to one another, facing forward, left and right in the correct location.

Why, I asked?

Because they will be confused.

I don’t care if my shoes are confused, I tell her. Have you seen my room?

Her eyes flicker nervously toward the sliver of floor visible through the open door. It scares me, she admits.

Shoes litter the floor, harem-skarem, randomly paired. What happens if you have confused shoes, I ask.

They will confuse your feet. And you won’t know which way you should go.

Hmmm.

Maybe she’s on to something.

The Missing

Outside beyond the glass,

gold leaves flutter gently past,

bare trees shiver in the blast

and I am missing

Acrid smoke falls in a whisper,

summer flowers quake and quiver,

seasons rolling on forever

but I am missing

Green to amber burning,

leaning inward now I’m turning

with a whispered, hollow yearning

All is missing

Colors fade upon my gaze,

drifting into shades of gray,

desperate shadow-passing days

I am missing

Words unfaithful once my friends,

turn their backs to me again,

refusing to be penned

for I am missing

One grain of sand beneath the sea,

one spray of ocean on the beach,

one prayer, Oh God to know you see

that I’m missing.

Spring-leaved branches pull apart,

filtered light illumines dark,

with fresh hope and a new start

God, I have missed you.

Slaying The Boogie Man

I’m staying home alone tonight.

That’s a big no no for me.

My roommate is out of town for the night . Not too big a deal, normally. But the lock on the door has decided not to work. And the basement… don’t get me started on the basement. Just don’t.

I thought about getting a room in town at a hotel with a treadmill and just taking a Me-Break, but the idea of running from my fear just doesn’t set well with me. I mean, I’m a big girl now. I need to get over this whole paranoia thing. It’s time to face this demon.

But first, I have to put curtains on the windows.

No rods. No nails. No nothing.

Improvise. Improvise.

Standing in the middle of the room, I check the time. About two hours to sundown. I got two hours til the scary thoughts come out.

Problem: No curtains. Solution: Strip the curtains off the windows in the rooms I don’t go in. Put them on the windows in the rooms I do go in.

Problem: No curtain rods. Solution: Break dowels in half and use bread twisties to make a loop. Hang those loops on a thumbtack. Now, something clip-like….

I remember seeing clothes pins somewhere. In the kitchen drawer.

The kitchen stops me in my tracks. Yikes. There’s that damn basement door.

I’m distracted for a few minutes while I wrestle the kitchen hutch in front of it.

What was I doing? Oh yes, clothes pins.

Now, clip the curtains to the dowels. Too short. Okay. We’re not going for Home Beautiful, here. Turn them sideways. Yeah, baby. Martha Stewart eat your heart out.

There is still the small detail of the front door. Problem: No lock.  Solution: No problem. Country girls can survive, right?

One hour til sundown.

Breaking the cardinal rule of paranoid agoraphobia, I go outside and drag the wood boxes inside. The crew has been diligent to fill my (cardboard) wood boxes with the wood stripped from the concrete forms, but those big strapping boys forget that old ladies aren’t as strong as they are. Right now, I’m grateful for their diligence, but I’ll just bet they never thought I’d be using them for a door stop.

Stack the big one against the inside. Good and heavy. There. That’ll do the job.

Living room. Basement stairs. No door.

Crap.

I drag the recliner across the room, propping it sideways against the opening. On the inside, I stack the other two wood boxes and step back, surveying my handiwork. It sure as heck won’t stop anyone, but the noise will announce their arrival.

Lights. Candles. Bullets.

Aw crap. The bullets are outside in the truck. The gun is under my pillow. That’s not going to work. I need for them to be in the same place at the same time, even though I’m not sure guns work on imaginary creatures.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Wait.

I used to keep extra ammo in my satchel. The satchel that is in my closet.

BINGO.

I load the little fella in the holster and instantly feel better. Dusk is settling. Big girl panties are on. I’m ready to slay me some boogie-men.

God of Wonder

Golden discs afloat on ripples

Sparkling of purest silver

Glistening waves draw ever nearer

Lapping on the shore.

Prudent clouds drift round in aimless

Patterns on cerulean canvas

In a beauty all too shameless

For this meager shore.

Fields of green neverending

Wrap themselves around unbending

Curvatures of earth...hinting

At a distant shore.

Songbirds sing in foreign tongue

Of a time when time was young

Of a world freshly sprung

From another shore.

Sunsets scream, pine-boughs whisper

In accord with all of nature

God almighty! Great creator!

Lives forevermore!

Comes a time when all creation,

Every tribe and every nation

Bend their knee in adulation

Bowing on that shore.

Saying “You alone are only worthy!

You alone are God most Holy!

Loosen now these ties that hold me

To this mortal shore.

 Raise your heads O mountain splendor!

Clap your hands, go forth and tender

Praises for the God of Wonder

Reigns forevermore!

The Skinny

“I don’t like these. ”

“So try another pair.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you’re going to anyway. Because that is how normal people buy clothes. Not out of a catalogue.”

The tone in Safety’s voice makes catalogue shopping sound one notch above greased pig catching.

I prevaricate a bit more. She holds fast. “We’re not leaving here without a pair of pants.”

“I have pants.”

“You have baggy, old lady pants. And I’m going to throw them away when we get home, so find something you like or you’ll be running around in your panties.”

“They aren’t that baggy.”

She arches a brow. I arch one back. We have a stare down.

Never have a stare down with a Navajo woman. They always win.

I look away first.

“Stella, you’re hiding inside sloppy clothes and baggy pants.”

“So what? I’m old. I’m a grandmother.” And I’m alone. And I’m divorced. And I’m practically homeless, for heaven’s sake.

 “You don’t seem to me like the type of person to hide from things.”

Tears prick my eyes. She has no idea. No idea.

“I wasn’t always this way,” I tell her.

“You don’t have to be someone else, anymore” she says, gently taking my arm and guiding me into a store. “You can just be you, now.”

Okay, so maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.

Inside the store, I find myself drifting toward the old lady clothes. Safety heads me off at the pass. “Here,” she says, handing me a pair of blingy jeans with legs that look like spaghetti. “Try these.”

I push them away. “I couldn’t fit my arm in there. Are you kidding?”

Her look told me no.

Into the dressing room I go, burdened like a camel crossing the desert. I hate everything and I tell her so.

“Come out and let me see.”

“Stand in front of the door. I’m not parading around the store looking for you.”

Cautiously, I peer outside the dressing room. There she is. Waiting. I take one very small step outside. She motions for me to turn around.

“Better, but not exactly right. You need more...Oomph.”

Is oomph a new word for butt? I decide yes. “I have no oomph. I’m oomph-deficient.”

“You have one. It’s just hiding under the wrong clothes. Let’s go. We’ll try another store.”

And we do. Like miners in search of gold, we pan in every store in the mall before we’re through. In the fourth store, one that caters to size 00 teenagers, I find my first shiny thing: A pair of ‘curvy’ jeans that actually look okay and give my backside a little ‘oomph’. Excited, I step out of the dressing room. Safety nods approval, hands me a pair of cargos, and disappears again. A few minutes later, she returns with a pair of gorgeous black booties dangling from her fingertips.

Shoes. My weakness.

“Try these.”

I slip my feet into the black leather straps and stand in front of the mirror. Skinny black cargos encase my legs, which appear magically longer, thanks to the booties. Flapped pockets on the derriere give the illusion of oomph.

“You like?” she asks.

 “I think I do.” I turn sideways, patting my little muffin-top. “What about this?”

“We’ll work on that. C’mon, put on your baggies. We have to find tops.”

We hit the mother-lode in Aeropostole. And it’s there that Safety notices my bra.

“When’s the last time you bought a bra? And where?”

“Does Walmart count?”

She sighs. “Let’s pay for this stuff. We have one more stop to make.”

By the time we are through, Victoria has no secrets left. And I am the proud owner of a very practical beige bra...And it’s twin sister, in Hot Pink. I have no idea where I’ll ever wear such a thing, but it makes me feel feminine just to know it’s nestled in the bag.

I end up with three pair of jeans, a pair of cargos, a pair of capris and a pair of short shorts, several shirts, a few camisoles, two bras, a new perfume and those fabulous black heels.

In the car, I begin to doubt the wisdom of buying the booties. “I work six days a week. When am I ever going to wear those shoes?”

“When I take you out,” she says and slips the car into drive.

Out? Terror fills me. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to meet people. What kind of ‘out’ is she talking about? ‘Out’ out? Or just…. Out?

I wipe away a bead of sweat. Just the thought of being around people can make me clammy. Jiminy, when did I become agoraphobic?

She laughs. “You’re getting all worked up. Chewing your lip. Stop it.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. For ‘out’.”

“You’re not,” she agrees. “But, in time, you will be.”

I seriously doubt it. But then, I didn’t think I’d ever own a pair of skinny jeans, either.

Soundtracks

I don't know about you, but I live my life to a soundtrack. It used to be a Contemporary Christian playlist with song titles like, ‘I Can Only Imagine’ and ‘From the East to the West’. I liked that period in my life. It was calm. It was fruitful.

Then overnight, it seemed, someone swapped out Mercy Me and Third Day for Evanescence and Nickleback. Those were the angry, stormy years of 2004-08 and the music I listened to reflected that tone.

Then came 2009 and 10. Things went from bad to worse. That’s when Rascal Flatts’ “Stand” became my theme song. When life knocks you down, you get back up and stand… and in my mind, I’d see myself doing just that, sometimes crawling, sometimes dragging myself up my fingernails, but always rising again. Because I knew if I didn’t do it in my imagination, I wouldn’t do it in real life. And I had to find a way to survive with my important parts intact.

These days, I have a whole Supergirl Circle of Support playlist to get me through each day. My alarm is ‘Little Miss Do My Best’ from Sugarland. I drag myself out of bed at 4:30 to the sound of:

Little Miss Down On Love, Little Miss I Give Up, Little Miss I’ll Get Tough don’t you worry ‘bout me anymore. It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, sometimes you gotta lose ‘til you win… it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright… and it’ll be alright again.

Every single time I turn on the radio, Sara Evans’ ‘I Get a Little Bit Stronger’ is playing, so I downloaded that for my ringtone.

And I'm done hoping that we could work it out - I'm done with how it feels, spinning my wheels, letting you drag my heart around. And, oh, I'm done thinking that you could ever change, I know my heart will never be the same. But I'm telling myself I'll be okay. Even on my weakest days…I get a little bit stronger.

My IPod is full of great stuff, but my favorite is Eli Young Band’s ‘Guinevere’ –

She carries memories around like souvenirs down in her pockets

She should have let some go by now but can't seem to drop it

Says forgiveness ain't nothing but a lifeless tire on the shoulder of her soul that never rolls

For as much as she stumbled she's runnin'

For as much as she runs she's still here

Always hoping to find something quicker than heaven

To make the damage of her days disappear

I love the words 'as much as she’s stumbled she’s runnin.' That describes the last ten years of my life perfectly.

Martina McBride’s “When God Fearing Women Get The Blues” is great inspiration on the treadmill.

When God-fearing women get the blues, there aint no slab dabbing telling what they’re gonna do… I got a Mustang, it’ll do eighty, you don’t have to be my baby, I’ve stirred my last batch of gravy, you don’t have to be my baby anymore.

Okay, so I sold the Mustang, but you get the gist.

But the song in my head, the mental music I hear when I look in the mirror every morning is “Who Are You? Who, Who, Who, Who?”

I’m empty. A blank canvas. And even though I don’t miss the stress and the fighting and the pressure, I do miss home. I miss my old life… I miss my horses and the whippoorwills and Psychobitch (my dog) barking all night. I look out the window at the mountains and the sage and I ache to feel a horse between my knees, to hear the sound of cattle bawling, see baby calves bucking and kicking in the trail ahead. I feel like while I was looking for peace and happiness, I lost myself.

I feel these four walls closing in, Face up against the glass, I'm looking out. Is this my life I'm wondering. It happened so fast. How do I turn this thing around? Is this the bed I chose to make? There's greener pastures I'm thinking about, wide open spaces far away… All I want is the wind in my hair, to face the fear but not feel scared. Wild horses, I wanna be like you. Going closer to the wind, I'll run free too. Wish I could recklessly love like I'm longing to. I wanna run with the wild horses, run with the wild horses. (Natasha Bedingfeld)

Okay. Enough of that.

But, if I’m not married, what am I? The last time I was single, LoverBoy was wearing red plastic pants singing The Kid is Hot Tonight. I had curly permed 'big' hair and thought high-waisted pants were flattering. My hair is longer now and straight. It’s darker. I wouldn't be caught dead in high-waisters, but I’ve lost enough weight that the low-rise jeans I stole from my daughter are in danger of becoming hipsters. Not a good look for someone who isn't exactly a spring chicken. The lines around my mouth and eyes spell out ‘pre-menopausal’ if you look close enough. Thanks to my grueling schedule, I now have zombie-circles under my eyes.

What is it they say …“When I am old. I shall wear purple.”

Key ominous music.

Last week, I bought a purple lace bra. Oh my God, I’m over the hill. Next thing you know, I'll be wearing a red hat.